


Remote Control

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [35]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Comedy, Erotic Glasses Fiction, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 18:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5386496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor discovers that he rather likes Clara in his sonic sunglasses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remote Control

**Author's Note:**

> for melt-the-stars, who prompted: Twelve/Clara, Twelve discovers that he rather likes Clara in his sonic sunglasses.

“How 'bout now.”

“Nope.”

Clara frowns, squeezes the arm of the glasses until they whirr. “Now?”

The Doctor glances down at himself. “No. Nothing.”

She makes a frustrated 'hmmph’ sound, takes the glasses off, glares at them, puts them back on. “Okay. I got this. I just need to think about what I want, and it happens.”

“Bit more complicated that that.” He leans back on the headboard, arms folded across his chest. “There are easier ways to accomplish this, you know.”

“I will sonic your pants off if it’s the last thing I do. I will die on this hill, Doctor.” She looks constipated, which is, he supposes, her Intently Thinking face. Still cute, though. She tweaks the glasses again. “Anything?”

“Still nothing. Look, have you considered the possibility that there’s no setting that’ll do what you want? Or maybe this is a fixed point, and you were never meant to mess around with such powerful forces. So close to my genitalia.”

“Yeah, well, I messed around with your ‘fixed point’ last night. Heyoo, nailed it.” She holds her hand up for a high-five, which she delivers to herself. And tweaks the glasses again.

“Close your eyes-”

“No.”

“Close your eyes and wait for about thirty seconds and then maybe-”

“ _No_.” She straightens her shoulders, cracks her knuckles, brings her hand up to the glasses with a flourish.

“You realize I’m in danger of irrevocably associating sonic technology with sexual frustration.”

“Don’t care.” The glasses chirp, and chirp, and still chirping.

He scoots down, with all the mournful dramatics of a landslide (he hopes), arms flung out either side of him. He wonders if he’s made a terrible mistake. Several terrible mistakes.

“How 'bout now?”


End file.
